In our lives the choice is less difficult.
We can or cannot listen for
the creative sound, see the light
the shadow of clouds cast down
on earth, we are the fortunate, the ignorant
of beauty, the children of bliss.

When touched by feeling the hand
may fix in place a strand of hair
wipe particles of dust from the stall
pick up a telephone to dial
some distant friend ("Are things going well?")
We have a thousand moves to delay
that very touch of grace
lest it grasp our pain,
fingers deep inside the brain
diddling at the root of ignorance, until
who knows what
is real.

We do not wish to remember sorrow
yet our voices thread its threnody
through every seam.
The melody drones through bone marrow
middle ear rocked dumb to all else
(which also sings, but now, misted over.
Gone into oblivion.)

It is amazing how often
we avoid the ocean's reach;
holding our breath when air is free.
Although it is certain that we are
both the curl of the shell
and the soft wave washing in
we refuse to be entertained.
And still, and always, comes
the friend:
    stranger than dishonesty
    closer than our certainty
    inviting our involvement
    with what we do not think to see.

He passes through, whispering in our dreams.
What does he say?
    "Don't grasp at the form, it cannot grant
      you peace.
    Praise the emptiness which gives all form
      its shape;
    the womb from which all creation pours,
      cascades,
    overflows, ripples, crashes, slumbers,
      stagnates.
    From the very no-beginning the wheeling
      life-force surges into being
    then dries up, evaporates, just when
      you've got the pipes securely set in
      place.
    Beloved one, let go."

The message vibrates the edges of clarity
leaving an imprint of something more powerful
than possessing a reality.

What does he say?
Nothing. Really.

Absolutely no thing.